The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. You and Jay sit in the backseat, engine off, lights dim, just passing the blunt between you. Smoke curls lazily, lingering in the air, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne.

You’re both high enough that words feel heavier, slower, like each one lands in the other’s chest. He leans back, arm resting against the seat, eyes flicking to yours when you hand him the blunt. He takes it, drags, exhales, and lets the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

“…You’re awfully quiet,” he murmurs, tone low, teasing.